


Connect

by Scrumpadouchus



Category: Sorcery (Video Game), Steve Jackson's Sorcery! - Steve Jackson
Genre: (kinda), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Game, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:20:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25642693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrumpadouchus/pseuds/Scrumpadouchus
Summary: Flanker and the Analander return home to both celebration and an uncertain future.
Relationships: Analander/Flanker, MC/Flanker
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	Connect

**Author's Note:**

> My own take on the immediate post-game. 
> 
> Many thanks to photosynthetic_people for keeping me company in this lonely fandom and encouraging me to post this! As well, thanks so much to Elyksis for his _valuable input_ and knowledge about... certain topics. Could never have done it without you~<3 
> 
> This was my first time writing gay smut, and it was in second person pov besides, which proved a challenge. However, despite my suffering, I did my best and eventually prevailed!!! So please enjoy.

\---------------------  


Stepping past the Cantopani gate feels like entering a whole another world. You’re home, yes, but it feels oddly foreign all the same, like trying on an old favourite pair of boots to find they no longer fit. 

You’re passed and prodded at by many hands, cheering and waving you on. Many bow as you pass, or reach out for a handshake. Flanker shrinks back, his gaze at his feet. A sight-master eventually waves you over, greets you by briefly clasping your forearm. 

“Welcome back. The King will be pleased to see that our great journey-man has returned.” 

A second sight-master joins you, carrying the reins of two horses. One has a beautiful golden buckskin coat, the other chestnut. The paint on the sightmaster’s face shows few lines of colour. A novice trainee, then. You briefly remember the small island on lake Ilkalala, and your stomach goes hard. Out of the corner of your eye you notice Flanker give you a questioning look. 

“Here.” The unfamiliar sightmaster says, and your mind is pulled from memories of nails through skin, burned eyes and a bloody tree; “To speed your trip to the capitol.” 

You bow, showing your respect to these unique warriors. Flanker continues to stand at your side while the horses whinny and paw at the ground. Shaking your head, you push your memories to the back of your mind. 

“Ever ride a horse before?” You ask, vaulting yourself up onto the creature’s saddle. It trots a few steps forward, you pull on the reins and it settles. Flanker is staring at his horse like one would stare at a particularly large spider. 

“Occasionally.” He replies. 

“Want to ride with me then?” You have no doubt that riding in together would cause much more of a stir, but at the same time you can’t be bothered to be concerned about it. 

“That won’t be necessary.” Flanker swiftly climbs up into the saddle, so quick you doubt the horse even noticed his ascent. He takes his own reins, moving them slightly back and forth for a few seconds as if trying to ignite some age-old muscle memory. After a few more seconds he nods toward you. “Lead the way.” 

At a fast pace, you could reach the castle in about a day. Resolutely nodding, you dig your heels in and set your horse going at a gallop, the cries and cheers of the people of the outpost settlement eventually fading behind you as you clear the farms and fields and the road cuts through forest. 

For a while, you ride in silence. 

The King had ordered you to return with the crown, with promises of reward outside your wildest dreams. Gold. Jewels. Status. Land. Against your promise and your honour you had shattered the cursed thing into pieces, in the hopes that such a tool could never be used again. Perhaps your vision in Kakabad was right, and you would be hanged after all. You pull lightly on the reins, and the horse slows slightly. Flanker does the same. 

“The King will know of us by now.” You say. “The eagles will have returned to him.” 

Flanker scoffs. “Though it is good to be back on land, I do not understand why they could not have taken us as well.” 

“Perhaps they were needed for a more important task.” You say. 

“More important than bringing the saviour of the ancient world safely home?” 

You shake your head. It would do no good to rehash the earlier debate about the eagles. 

“It is no matter. If we hurry, we should be there before nightfall.” Your hands are shaking on the reins. It takes a few seconds, but you quell them. You catch your lover staring at you again, his gaze inscrutable. 

“We do not have to go.” Flanker finally says. “We can avoid this place, go anywhere.” 

Going east, retracing the steps of your journey is a non option. As lush and green as some areas of the Shamutanti hills were, there was also rampant poverty and nil safety, the risk of goblins or elvins raiding during the night a constant threat. Kharé too was a place you’d not be keen to return to so soon, and as for the Baklands… it went without saying. East is not an option. If you were to leave this land, you’d either have to catch a boat in Kharé, or go head west. 

“You’d come with me to the old world?” You ask. 

“Anywhere.” The assassin nods. 

You think about it a moment. If there was a time to flee, it would be now. Flanker at least would have a better chance – he was swift moving, fast climbing, could meld into the shadows. Yourself you had more concerns about. A small fortune is stashed in your pack, a heap of gold coins and large jewels scraped out of the well in the steppes, more than enough to start a new life. Your wealth of magical artifacts are still intact. Your pearl ring, your yellow powder. _You could go invisible, pack light and move fast_ – 

But you cannot keep the shroud of invisibility over you forever like some living grimalkin, and Analand’s sightmasters as well as eagles all know your face and your manner. Their supernatural eyesight could spot you on the roof of the citadel in Mampang, then they could certainly find you during your journey to Lumlé. 

For a moment, the world seems very bleak, reality sharpening for a moment. Your mouth goes dry. 

“No. I started this journey, I must end it properly. The King deserves an explanation. Though perhaps you should stay outside the castle when we arrive.” You force a laugh, “then if I am jailed, you can get me out.” 

“You fear he will execute you?” Flanker asks, through his mask you see the area between his eyebrows creasing. 

“Perhaps not.” You relent. “Your paranoia is rubbing off on me.” 

“No one at the outpost seemed angry about it being destroyed. If your King is as just and noble as you say, then he will not mourn its loss.” 

Tersely nodding, you fall back into silence. He is right, of course. The wear of the long journey is making you unnecessarily suspicious. With a dig of your heels you pick up the pace. After another hour you’ve both cleared the forest and are back amongst dirt roads and fields of golden wheat. Hovels of the peasantry are scattered about, no doubt housing the farmers. 

Eventually the tall grey walls of the city’s battlements come into view on the horizon with another large gate no doubt manned by soldiers. It feels like a lifetime ago that you’ve stood before them. 

“Analand sure loves its walls.” Flanker remarks. “Around your border, and around your capital?” 

“More then for you to climb, my dear.” 

As you approach two soldiers standing atop the ramparts both draw their bows, while one calls down; 

“State your business!” 

You clear your throat. 

“I have returned from Mampang.” You call. “I have completed my King’s royal mission.” 

They look to each other a moment. 

“ - And the crown?” One asks. 

“ - And your companion?” The other asks. 

“I would speak with the King!” You call back, ignoring both questions. To the right of you Flanker quietly chuckles. 

They shrug. 

“Very well. Word has been sent ahead of you both.” The bearded guard says, and he gestures to people no doubt somewhere down inside the wall. Seconds after his signal, there’s a clanging as metal latches are pulled away, and the gates are pulled open. 

Spurring your horse into a trot, you enter into the King’s city. 

Even this late into the evening, people are still milling about, smells of cooking and smoke wafting out of every open window onto the street. The city is mostly circular, laid out somewhat like a wheel. Several roads branch out before you. Taking the right-most road, you head up the cobblestone path that slopes uphill. 

The lower-class of the city lived in crowded multi-story houses closer to the walls. Inward had the tradesmen, then the artisan districts, then the merchants, the temples, and finally at the most northern spokes of the wheel, the King’s castle and keep. 

“I was first brought here once my parents realised I was a sorcerer.” You say aloud. “I was just a boy. This place seemed so huge.” 

Flanker rides in silence beside you, but you know he’s listening. 

“The only place to be trained is in the city. I spent years living in barracks with other boys; we trained like soldiers during the day, then as students of magic at night. The temple acolytes taught us to read and write.” 

“… Why not try to master magic on your own?” Flanker asks. 

“To draw power from the stars without knowing what it does would only mean disaster. Telling a child not to play with new-found magical powers is like telling a cat not to stalk a bird. It likely would have killed me, or worse, taken others with me.” 

“Do you resent them for sending you away?” 

You hum, lost in thought. At first, leaving your small farm and the tiny village surrounded by woods had been exciting, adventurous. But the hard work and discipline of the city had ended your childhood early. Sometimes you wonder what your life would have been if you had not been born a sorcerer, but then you remember all that you’d have to lose. 

“My parents did not have much of a choice. At least they got some gold out of it.” 

“That does not answer my question.” 

“Mhm. Then yes, I did,” 

Flanker nods. 

“Do you have a house here?” 

“Before this journey, I still lived in the barracks, at the common beck and call of the King.” 

“And now?” 

“I think I’ve served enough. I am my own man now.” 

Flanker seems pleased by your answer. In this way, both you and him are the same: both champions tired of a tight leash. You pass by a temple, marble brick and steeples that reached into the clouds. You bow your head slightly in respect, acknowledging the spirit of the gorilla that has walked with you the majority of your journey. Flanker nods his head as well, though no doubt his prayers are going to a different mistress. 

The streets are slowly starting to empty, people drawn indoors by promise of heat and light. Most businesses you pass stand empty and locked up for the night. A cool dusk wind gusts around the buildings. You continue to travel up hill, ignoring the branching paths that lead to the barracks, the training yards, and the armory. 

The doubled iron-wood gates of the palace become visible just as the first stars begin to dot the sky. At the barbican, no doubt you’d be forced off your horses and led on foot across the drawbridge into the castle proper. 

“Shall I enter in secret?” Flanker pulls back on the reins of his mare, causing the beast to snort as it heels. 

You should let him do so. The idea of him leaving you makes you balk, but you know it’d be smarter, safer, not to mention more compassionate. Flanker had a hard enough time with the crowds at the gate. The throngs of the court and their scrutinising gazes would likely cause him even more discomfort. 

“Be my shadow.” You say, nodding. Even from on the horse, you can see his shoulders relax. Then he dismounts soundlessly and slips away, fading into the early-evening dark. Climbing down off your own horse, you take your reins as well as that of his horse and approach the gate house alone. 

\---=-=-=-= 

This time, your arrival is known, and they let you in quickly, glancing questioningly at the two horses but not asking any questions about it. One guard takes the reins and leads the horses off to the palace stables, the other bows and bids you allow him to lead you to the King. Servants and members of the court whisper as you pass through the halls, sneaking furtive glances at you around corners, behind decorative hand-fans. Dancers fumble and flub their steps upon seeing you, shock clear on their painted faces. They had not expected you to return alive. 

The halls are grand, taller than you’d be even with a cast of _big_. Flags of all the neighbouring nations hang throughout the hall, Analand’s in green, blue and gold in the centre of it all. The throne is at the very end of the room, centred under a large stained-glass window. 

This too, seems too small. Compared to everything else you’ve done, this is trivial. You walk a fair way up the runner carpet then kneel, keeping your eyes at the mirror-polish marble floor. 

“Rise.” 

The voice is cool and booming. People could say what they like about your king – at the very least he knew how to project his voice. 

You stand and look your King in the eye. 

“I have returned from Mampang your Highness.” 

“As we all see.” He gestures briefly to the others in the room. 

The court sorcerer is the only one you recognise of the King’s current entourage. The rest of the elite in attendance were interchangeable, nameless members of the aristocracy. Many of them you know likely had their own sorcerers hired just for petty chores or entertainment purposes. Some of the boys you had trained with were hired simply to use magic for inane cantrips, the rich simply wanting to look distinguished by owning their own ‘personal magic user’. 

“Your Highness. I have destroyed the crown.” Your voice rings out strong, and your eye-contact does not waver. “The thing was cursed; corrupted by the evil of the Archmage. It would be of no good to anyone anymore.” 

Gasps ripple through the aristocracy. The king stares you down with his steel-grey eyes, and you do not falter. The crown on his head shines with gold, and jewels of rubies and turquoise, rather than magical artifacts. It grants you a little comfort. 

After a moment, he speaks again. 

“What of the Archmage?” 

“Dead, your Highness. Archmage Valiquesh from the golden age sits in his seat now. Mampang was planning an invasion of the ancient world. It has been stopped.” 

“Another Archmagus?” 

“The previous one from a thousand years past. She had been imprisoned in a book for a long time.” 

“A book? Hah! Was a dungeon not special enough for her?” The King claps his hands together, gruffly chuckles. The court copy his humour with nervous titters. 

Then the King holds up his hand; the room falls silent again. “You sorcerers are a strange lot, I’ll give you that.” He remarks. Unsure of what to say, you simply bow slightly. 

He strokes his fingers through his short, salt-and-pepper beard. “Very well, we should reach out to this Valiquesh by the end of the week. Send a letter. Reach out with a branch and glean her intentions.” 

A skinny, older man in frilly clothes is sitting on a small desk on a lowered platform to the right of the King, while writing frantically on parchment. The King of Analand speaks to him quickly for a few moments in a hushed tone, then he nods and returns his attention to you. 

“The loss of the crown is… regrettable.” There’s something there, in his expression -in the way he picks his words carefully - that has you wary. If you could wear your skullcap and cast _TEL_ you’d pry into his mind and see his true thoughts. Check if it was all in your head, or simply your imagination. But you cannot risk such things here in view of those who know better, so you remain still: bracing for the verdict of jail, of your head, or of your hand. 

The King continues; “ - But despite your circumstances, you have done well. Tonight, the Kingdom will celebrate in your honour, to thank you for your service!” 

Your head snaps up. 

_What_ ? 

“We will feast, and dance, and you will regale us with your tales!” He declares, and you barely refrain your jaw from dropping. 

The rest of the royal entourage are clapping now, large smiles on their faces as they cheer, court dancers resuming their eternal spinning, and you’ve never felt more out of place. 

Royal retainers usher you out of the main hall as servants flood in, their arms full of décor for the event. 

Had this been planned well in advance? Though the eagles took half a day to fly you back, then the horse-ride another few hours besides, and the sightmasters had warned you before that you would be _watching_. 

He had known the fate of your mission perhaps, long before you had even arrived here. 

As you’re led up a winding staircase and through several branching hallways you keep checking shadowy corners, looking out windows for any sign of Flanker. If he had been present, you had not noticed him. 

Finally the servants stop. 

“This room has been prepared for you.” One maidservant with short curly hair bows. “We have arranged formal-wear appropriate for the occasion.” 

“You really don’t – “ You start, but she cuts you off by knocking at the large, hardwood doors. They open slowly inward, being pulled open by someone inside. You’re ushered inside the large bedroom. It’s finer than any room you have ever been in, and bigger than Molka’s entire house. The bed is king-sized and four-postered, long shiny curtains draped over the top. A fireplace is lit and crackling away cheerfully in the corner. A small sitting area is in front of the fireplace, with two chaise lounges snuggled with a small tea table set in between them both. Artwork adorns the wall, vases with fresh flowers sit on various side tables, and a large rug covers at least half the room, looking plush and warm. 

An older maidservant enters the room then, pointing at a spot on the floor clear from the rug. Some male valets rush in, holding a large wooden tub, and then it is quickly filled with steaming, bubbly water. 

“Go on now.” The older matron’s voice is gruff, and she gives you a light push towards the tub. “Hurry and wash up. Wren here will shave you.” 

The female servants titter as the matron shoos them out of the room. 

You wash quickly, allow the shave – though you tense at the feeling of the steel razor near your throat – and with some queer servant’s intuition, not a moment after you’ve stepped out of the tub you are swarmed again, being toweled dry from several directions and your hair combed and trimmed. Before you can so much as blink you’re shoved into the fitted doublet and breeches, and being led back downstairs to the ballroom, taking one last morose glance into the shadows. 

=-=-= 

The party held by the king lasted long into the night, with no indication of letting up. Countless men and women wished to meet you, shake your hand, or share a dance. The king himself was not furious at the loss of the crown, though it took a few flagons of ale to help him over his disappointment. Throughout the night you keep glancing into quieter corridors, behind pillars, into shadowy corners of adjacent rooms, but are disappointed with no view of your lover. 

You had to beg your leave for over an hour before you were allowed to leave the party. You stumble back to the room appointed to you by the King far past the witching hour, feet sore from dancing and cheeks sore from forcing a constant smile. 

The room is lit with candle-light, a large bottle of wine is present on the small table in the sitting area. It looks identical to the vintage being served at the feast. Had it been swiped from the kitchen, or placed here by hospitable servants? 

The bed in the far corner of the room looks luxuriously plush, thick drapes hanging from the bed’s four-poster canopy. Such luxury was awarded when you were the king’s honoured guest. For how long that would be, you are not certain. 

“Flanker?” You call out. With any luck the assassin figured out what room was yours and is already here. Though you cannot make out any figure in the room currently, that meant nothing considering where Flanker has managed to hide in the past. 

“Enjoying your party?” A familiar voice purrs. 

You squint in the dark to try to spot your love. Rather than be behind the curtains or standing in any shadowy corner, he simply walks in from the room’s balcony that overlooks the city. 

“Not at all.” You admit truthfully, relief fills you at the familiar sight of your lover. The tight muscles of your shoulders are already starting to relax. “You’re starting to rub off on me.” 

“Perhaps, or your King must be bad at throwing parties.” 

“Your King now too.” You approach him eagerly, slide both hands down to rest at his waist. His mask and dark garb is still on. Obviously enough, perhaps he has no lay-clothes on him. “Though the Svinns did know how to celebrate – but don’t tell the King that.” 

It seems a bit shallow somehow, this celebration. After everything that’s happened, after everything you’ve learned and been through, a traditional hero’s return fell a little flat. 

“Not exciting enough for you? Not wild enough? Or not dangerous enough?” Flanker’s dark eyes flash, then he rests his hands on your shoulders. You both can still hear the echoing of the music and laughter, distantly floating up from far downstairs. 

Shaking your head, you start to sway slowly back and forth. Flanker is stiff at first, but follows your lead. Still a bit wary to dance, it seems, if this slow trancelike waving could be considered dancing. 

“I wished you to be there.” You say, “I could never have done it without you.” 

Flanker turns his head to briefly look away. You smile, lean in closer as you continuously sway and whisper over where you suppose is his concealed ear. 

“I would have kissed you in front of all those hopeful girls, and danced with only you the whole night. Everyone would be jealous of the mysterious assassin who wooed the great hero, the _journeyman from Analand_.” 

Your lover snorts. 

“You are drunk.” 

“Mhm, not enough.” You break out of your slow dance sway and lead him over to the couches. You light candles with a quick cast of fire, holding the flame in your palm and cancelling the spell once the candelabra was lit, then pop the cork off the wine and pour It into two different glasses. 

“Take off your mask, love. I wish to see you.” 

Flanker raises an eyebrow at you, but does as you ask and pulls the concealing fabric free. The reveal of long, dark brown hair and a strong, cleanly shaven jaw makes your heart skip a beat. You sip at your wine, sit side-by-side on the damask print couch. A warm feeling floods your stomach, spreads up to your cheeks, and down to make your toes tingle. 

“I wanted to celebrate with you all night.” You say, sipping down the last of your wine, then filling up another cupful. Flanker watches you with some amusement, but finishes his own glass. 

“What did you have in mind?” He asks, pouring it back to a third full before swirling the dark red around the bottom of the flute. 

“Mhm, talking and drinking. Dice and drinking. Dancing and drinking – “ You shrug. “Easy enough? Or do you have anything else in mind?” 

“One at a time.” Flanker sips at his wine. “Shall we play dice?” 

“I thought you never played for fun.” 

“Normally.” His lips twitched into a brief smile. The urge to reach forward and kiss those lips is nigh overpowering for a moment. Your mouth waters. 

“Shall we make it interesting?” You ask, swallowing. 

“Interesting how? Lives on the line, or simply one’s reputation?” Flanker takes a bag of dice out of a pocket, counts out four dice for himself and four for you. He passes them to you, the muted heat of his gloved hand brief on yours for only a second. 

“Lose a die, drink.” You say, lifting a finger, then with a second; “Win the round, take a kiss.” 

Flanker’s lips turn up into a smirk. 

“You know you don’t need to win at dice to ask me for a kiss.” 

You shrug, attempting to present an expression of faux innocence. 

“I thought you might need the motivation, that’s all.” 

It’d been barely a day since you faced down the Archmage, since you took Flanker’s hand and asked him to return home with you, to _stay_ with you. The eagles had flown you back so quickly… all of that quest, all of your journey felt like a world away. A lifetime away. You’ve lived the same week through so many times you’ve lost count of the true passage of time - perhaps that had something to do with it. 

“One three.” Flanker says, and you startle. Barely glancing at your own hand, you answer. 

“Two threes.” 

Flanker watches you a moment. 

“Two fours.” He says after some deliberation. 

“Three ones.” You reply quickly. Flanker’s cheek twitches. 

“Call.” He says. 

Both of you reveal your dice. Only two ones between the two of you, both of which had been in your hand. Flanker leans in and takes a die from your set, pecking you quickly on the cheek a single time before pulling back and looking at his lap. It tingles slightly where his lips have touched you, and you shiver. 

Flanker rolls his four dice once more, and waits for you to do the same with your three remaining dice. 

You roll, your hand jittery. You only have a single one, three, and four. 

“Are we to play this game in silence as in Kharé? One two.” You declare. 

“The stakes were higher there.” He sucks in his cheek. “One four.” 

“Two fours. Are my kisses not as treasured as gold?” 

“Perhaps you should raise the stakes then. Three fours.” 

“Do you have something in mind? Five fours.” 

The broader man smirks. “Now I know you are not trying. Call.” 

You both reveal your die. Only two fours on the table. You shrug. Flanker removes another of your die and leans over to peck your opposite cheek this time. This time you catch him, reaching up to cup his cheek. 

“I see you’re not interested in the game.” Flanker says, gently withdrawing from your reach, taking the dice from your hands and laying them off to the side on the sitting tables. “You should have spoken thusly. Come on then.” He stands from the couch, and gestures you to follow. 

Your heart is pounding in your chest. That excitement bubbles just below the surface, threatening to break free. 

“You wanted to dance with me at the ball?” He asks. 

“I think this is much better in private.” You take position flush against his front, one hand against his waist, the other holding Flanker’s hand. His left-hand rests around your waist as well. You start to sway again, moving in slow, short steps in an easy waltz to the mumbled string music drifting up from the ballroom. Your journey together… it was not told to the people below. They need not know every low point, every impossible puzzle, though they cheered at the few highlights the King had made you recount. 

“I thought I’d go mad in the Baklands.” You say. “But when I saw you, it reminded me of my goal. It gave me strength to keep going. It anchored me in reality.” 

“The Baklands are a cursed place.” Flanker agrees, a fire lighting in his eyes. “I walked among ghosts, in the wastelands with no food or water for days at a time. I knew not what was real and what was false. I’m not as you, a sorcerer used to seeing such unnatural sights.” 

You recall the entire villages that disappeared into dust, just by the winds of time passing through. The voices that called out to you, the bodies that brushed against you, only to turn and see nothing but dirt and decay. No amount of sorcery had made that normal. The beacons perhaps were something you should not have meddled with, but it had given you a sense of stability. 

“Sorcerers are by trade unnatural. I’m surprised you continued to meet up with me.” You say, squeezing the leading hand that’s laced with yours. Flanker shakes his head. 

“Befriending you was cruel. It was like a farmer befriending his cattle. I knew you would likely die in your quest, and yet…I was weak. I could not help it. Once I knew you, I could not abstain.” 

This is different than your dance in the tower: flurried, passionate, visceral. Now your thoughts filled up the space in between you both. You place your cheek against his shoulder, your hand resting on his lower back pulling him in closer. This is your first time truly alone together since your brief meeting back in the mountains of high Xamen. 

“Do you remember the mountain summit?” You ask, even though the very question is rhetorical. That night was one you doubt either of you could ever forget. Your leading steps are guiding the two of you in a lazy circle. 

“I became a man again.” Flanker replies quietly. Not just a shadow, living from one job to the next, or a ghost devoid of a heart. You had never doubted it. 

A sigh. You stop your swaying and stand in place, holding him in a gentle pose. 

“You should lie down.” Flanker suggests after a few moments, pulling himself mostly away from you, leading you to the king-sized bed by the hand. You follow, tongue feeling strangely tied, your heart beating faster than when you faced the manticore. 

Your arms find him again once you’re standing next to the king-sized bed. His hands fit perfectly in yours, and you gently pull off each black glove, discarding them to the floor before lifting his right hand up to kiss lightly at each finger. 

“You’re staying, right?” You ask, before moving his hand to press against your chest. It’s beating harder than the Svinn drums back at Torripani. No doubt he can sense it under his fingers. No doubt he could end your life now, lethal with his appendages as well as any weapon. 

“If you wish me to.” He replies, face stoic as ever, though it seems at this time he’s struggling with it. You almost chuckle; how could he have doubts, even now? 

“Tonight and every night after.” You murmur and tilt your head lightly to the side. The two of you are now standing mere inches apart, drawn together as if by some unseen magnetism; your free hand rises up to rest against his cheek, your thumb idly caressing in a line. “…Do you also wish it?” 

Only a single set of candles are lit. The very room flickers in sync with your breathing. Your eyes lock together; liquid onyx in this dim light, you could drown in them. Flanker nods; abruptly, curtly, a manner reminding of a tightly wound spring. 

You lick your lips. Then on his face you can see it, the dam of his self control breaking into a hundred pieces. 

Flanker shudders; he cups your chin briefly… then in a blink his lips are on yours, pressing at the corner of your mouth. Tearing his hands out of your grip, they change to reside on the small of your back instead, resting there only a moment before tugging you forward to press flush against his unyielding body. Then his mouth withdraws, all too brief, a drop of water to a parched earth. 

“You do not understand – “ He growls, “ – what you are asking for.” 

Whining, you chase his lips back, nipping at his lower lip before pushing farther still, molding your mouth to his and tasting the tang of the red-wine. Moving together. This too is like a dance, or perhaps a sword-fight, known to the two of you alone. Your hands fumble with the ties of his garb while your lungs scream for air, pulling loose the knots in the black fabric and yanking up at his tunic top. 

Breaking apart, he pulls his tunic the rest of the way off and discards that too to the floor, then returns to nip at your neck, sucking marks against your collarbone. Nails scrape down your back, dig into your sides and seize you against his front, before slipping under the waist of your formal breeches. 

“I know my heart, as I know yours. What else is there to understand? Or perhaps I need to prove my dedication?” You nip back, then giving him no quarter, you drop to your knees. For a moment your fingers fumble with the ties on his belt, unlacing the drawstrings of his britches and shucking them down to the floor and leaving him in just a loincloth. 

“May I?” You ask, looking up at him. Flanker is still staring incredulously at you. It takes a second, but he nods. 

Your mouth waters, hastening your appreciation of him. Flanker’s thighs are toned and strong, leading to equally muscular calves. All that climbing and running had conditioned his body well. Hooking your fingers under his loincloth, you yank it down completely, dropping it onto his ankles and setting him free. He’s soft, firming up quickly under your hungry gaze. Adams apple bobbing, you appraise him. Olive skinned, with a glistening, pink tip. You brace your hands against his thighs, lay a kiss to the soft flesh of his groin before dropping further and taking him into your mouth. 

Hollowing your cheeks and dropping your tongue, you take him down to the hilt, stopping once your nose brushes the skin of his pubis. Taking a moment, you breathe in deep through your nose, keeping your position steady, getting used to the restricting gag. Humming, you close your eyes and lave your tongue over the head, then begin to bob up and down slowly. Drool pools in your cheeks; you swallow quickly. 

Above you, Flanker makes a choking sound. 

Pressing your fingers harder against his thighs, you close your eyes and swallow again, sucking in with your cheeks before pulling back, letting him go just far enough to let you take another breath through the nose. 

It’s something you’ve done before, but here it’s just _so much better_. The rug under your knees helps cushion against the wood floor, but even if you had been kneeling on the coals of HOT tower you doubt you would have noticed. 

Your pants are constrictive around your groin, an intense throbbing accompanying it. It’s dismissed just as soon as it was noticed – spurring another hum before you take him back deep. Flanker tastes like sweat and skin, of his scent condensed into flesh, watery bitterant when your tongue rubs over the tip. It makes your head feels dizzier than it did from the wine. 

A hand drops onto your shoulder while another weaves through your hair and _grips_. It’s not enough to force any movement however, and you imagine it was just for something to hang onto. Your own hands change places, only one bracing against his hip while the other goes to explore your lover, cupping around the root of him and gently squeezing. 

Flanker moans, openly whining after another wet swallow as you grin around him. It’s powerful – only you get to hear him like this, get to experience him so beautiful and bare… your body tingles, toes curling as another sultry shiver runs through you. 

Next you grip at the base, take his manhood only halfway, another breath, then suck inward, massaging with your tongue and swirling him from side to side, savouring him like a piece of candied orange peel. He cries out, your name a blessing on his tongue. His stomach tenses, and as he shudders you take him back down to hilt one final time. 

Sudden rush of warmth hits the back of your tongue, thick, a little salty. Swallowing, you are awarded with another pulse, the flesh in your mouth near throbbing as you milk your love dry of his precious essence. Another still, and you massage around his root once more, pressing near the round prominences at the bottom, cupping and prodding where you knew was extra sensitive in the hopes of fueling a few extra pulls. 

You trace and probe with your tongue for another few seconds, giving one final suck when your head is pushed back and you’re forced off with a wet pop. 

“ – Ah –“ You take a breath, throat feeling hoarse, but stare up at Flanker in confusion. His eyes are _burning_ , dark brown simmering, barely contained. His hand hooks under your armpit, wrenches you up onto your feet, then tears open your britches, sending the buttons scattering onto the floor. You barely get the chance to step out of the fabric before Flanker is pushing you backwards. 

“Onto the bed.” He orders. 

Heat rises to flood your face with colour. You nod, throat spasming, still attempting to recover, and fall back onto the mattress. Not a second passes and he’s there, stealing your lips and chasing your tongue. Warmth. Weight. You press until he pulls away, panting, but still cages you in, arms and legs framing your body. 

“Have you ever been taken by a man before?” He asks, reaching down and cupping you through your loincloth. There’s a throbbing pulse, begging for attention, hard under his hand. Your mind blanks a moment, and you bite your lip, not trusting your voice not to crack. Flanker only waits a few more seconds. 

“…Well?” He squeezes again, and you moan, hips trying to push up into his palm. 

“- n-no.” You admit, your voice sounding scratchy from its previous abuse. You swallow. 

“I am surprised. You were so good with your mouth.” Flanker purrs, hand releasing your manhood to slip down instead between the fabric and your skin and start to slowly stroke. “How did you learn?” 

“Th-the b-barracks… _ah_!!” You bite your tongue once he squeezes again, skin-on-skin. Flanker’s smile widens. 

“What about the barracks? Concentrate my love.” 

“ _Mhnn_ I… growing up with the other boys w-we’d – “ 

His thumb rubs over the head. You cry out and attempt to thrust your hips but Flanker holds them still. 

“What would you do?” He hums. 

“So-some of us would fool around after training, just for fun, it was noth- _ahhh_ …” 

Then his hand withdraws, and he lays a single kiss on your cheek, before drawing back and sitting up. 

“Then I must find your friends and thank them personally.” His tone is unreadable. 

You blink, subtext taking a while to kick in. _Surely he didn’t mean_..? 

“… Flanker?” You ask instead, pushing yourself with your arms into a half recline, and the assassin chuckles. He places his fingertips over your sternum, and gently but firmly pushes you back onto your back. 

“Do you want to try?” He traces the scars on your chest, the one high on the collar bone, made from a blade meant for your throat. Magical mending could only go so far, speeding up the healing process but still left pale scars. You reach for his hand, and he laces together your fingers, lifts it up to kiss your knuckles. “At your word, we stop.” 

“Do you even need to ask? Yes. By the gods, _yes._ ” 

“Then get on your hands and knees.” 

You nod several times, bobbing your head like an overexcited seal, then rolling quick onto your stomach before arching up, face pressed into a pillow. The mattress shifts, and you hear some rustling from across the room before his weight returns to behind you. Before you can ask what he had gotten up for, his hands are holding onto your sides and a kiss is being pressed to between your shoulder blades. 

“What did you grab?” You turn your head, hair ruffled from the pillowcase. 

“Lube. Olive oil mixed with a little clove oil.” Flanker shows you the small glass bottle. A light-yellow substance sits behind the glass. As the bottle tilts, you see the viscous liquid ooze slowly up the side. 

Another kiss, now mid-back. Flanker works down the ridges of your spine, finally stopping at your sacrum. Fingers hook back into your loincloth, then it too is gone, leaving you cold. You hold your breath, tensing for… _something_. The few girls you’d fumbled with as a teen were hardly comparable to this. 

“Relax love…” Flankers murmurs. “We’ll take it slow.” 

He spreads your cheeks and a finger rubs nicely against your entrance. Warm and slippery, it traces in slow circles around you. Prods in, applying a soft pressure for only a moment, then returns to circling around the tight muscle. His free hand rubs over your back, tracing feather-light touches about your spine. 

Something in you then relaxes. Flanker seems to notice this too, and you hear the smile in his voice as he croons. 

“There you go love…” 

A small amount of pressure, then a single finger slides inside you. It takes a second to even recognise what has happened, it’s done so smoothly. Cool oil drips down your thigh. Flanker’s voice is rich, filled with praise. 

“You’re doing well. I’ll stretch you slow. Tell me if it’s too fast.” 

It spins around and around, he withdraws his finger twice to apply more oil, only to insert it back in. Each time the pressure gets less and less. 

Then, it suddenly pushes in, and _down_. 

He brushes something electric. Your breath hitches, and your dick jumps. Flanker makes a thoughtful sound behind you, and does it once more, this time stroking softly over the spot, again and again. A pressure mounts in your lower abdomen, not overwhelming but persistent. You thrust at the air but Flanker’s hand holds your hips back. The weight rises and rises, never abates, the ache travelling through your manhood and making it feel heavy and throbbing. Your stomach abruptly feels wet. 

“That’s okay love, just let it happen – “ Flanker purrs. You moan, pulling your face out of the pillows to look down. Your cock is red and swollen, drooling a thick white stream from the tip to slowly ooze down your length and drip onto the sheets. Yet it grants no relief, if anything it makes the throbbing, the instinct to rut worse. You reach a hand up to stroke your own manhood but Flanker intersects and pins it back down to the mattress. 

“No touching sweetheart. Just let me stretch you a while, it’ll feel extra good later.” He promises. He slides a second, wet finger in, and gently scissors your hole in between stroking at the bump in the wall. You cry, muffled by the pillow, and drop your shoulders in order to arch your hips higher up. “You’re eager to please, I see – “ Flanker praises after a few minutes, his free hand rubs your lower stomach, but not nearly close enough to grant relief. 

It takes two tries, but you finally manage to gasp out; “Flanker - !” 

“Are you doing okay?” He stops a moment. 

“No no no-unnhg… k-keep going!” 

“As you wish love.” 

You can hear the humour in his tone. A third finger, then you shove the pillow back in your mouth. He stretches you carefully, harder to move now with three, always sure to not put too much pressure against the prostate. You rock as he stretches you, prodding and chasing that feeling, the blankets underneath your knees are soaked with your spent. 

“Do you want me?” Flanker finally murmurs, after ten minutes of this torture. 

“ – _Yes…_! Please -” You moan, voice cracking. 

“Then tell me what it is you want.” His three fingers press in, your hips jerk forward again to no avail. 

“P-please, I need you Flanker… just t-take me.” 

His fingers withdraw. 

“You’re ready.” Flanker declares. His hand drops to lay against flat against your sacrum, resting it there. “My only concern is… will you come the moment I enter you?” He reaches down and grips firmly around the base of you, a restricting vice. You shake your head, words failing you. So much pressure, you felt liable to explode. 

Looking out again from the pillow, you watch Flanker uncork the bottle of oil and pour a generous amount into his palm, then reach down to coat his own girth with it. Your stomach flutters, your heart continuing its musical pounding. _Any moment now, any second now_ … 

“Deep breaths. Tell me if you want to stop.” Flanker instructs, and he squeezes you lightly again by your base. 

You close your eyes and inhale slowly. You feel him behind, then he guides himself into you with his other hand. 

It starts slow. Smooth from the oil, but more of a stretch than his fingers. Flanker sinks into you with reservation and control, leaving you to keen and clutch at the blankets. Inch-by-inch you are speared apart, until he reaches farther than his fingers had stretched. Once fully sheathed, he leans over your back, resting his weight atop you a moment, another kiss to mid-spine. He releases his grip over your own manhood, scaling both his hands to grip your hips instead. You tremble, trying to focus on your breathing. 

He’s filled you so utterly… he hasn’t even moved yet you want to cry from the burning, pleasurable sensation, so close to release, yet still so far. You look down between your own legs; your cock is still slowly drooling, but the liquid from it now is more-so clear, and it drips down thinner than before. 

Flanker snaps his hips forward. Stars explode in your vision. Your whole body shakes but your hips buck up to meet him on the next thrust. His fingers dig into your hip bones, and on his next plunge he angles _down_. 

Everything goes tight. Toes curling, you surrender to the waves of pleasure spreading out and dragging you down, an undertow you cannot resist. Flanker’s grip stops you from rutting down, and you cry his name as you finally come. Pulse after pulse leaves you in heavy spurts, but your whole body tingles like a protective spell has been cast over you. Flanker strokes your cock for the last few surges, milking out what little you have left while thrusting faster, pounding your prostate mercilessly. Your legs go weak. 

“Then I’ll make it easy for you love. Lie down.” He gently leads you down onto your right-side, settles in neatly behind your back, your forever-shadow. 

Next thing you know you’re lying on the bed. You feel like you’re floating, your whole body feather-light as if you’d just cast _fAL._ Flanker watches you with a slight smirk. His own member is still flushed and wanting, hard against his stomach. He must have pulled out as you had collapsed. Somehow, this rubs you the wrong way. 

“Enjoy yourself?” He asks. “You came fast.” 

Your face burns. You’d be more offended if it wasn’t so obvious that Flanker was pleased. 

“Mhm… I’d enjoy it more if you finished what you started.” You open your arms, and Flanker hesitates a moment before settling back down atop you. You snake your arms around him, rubbing over his shoulders. “Make me yours.” 

Flanker’s eyes narrow; then he dives down to suck another mark onto your neck while one hand slips under you to spread your buttocks once more. 

“Roll over,” he purrs into your ear. “This time I’ll hold you up.” 

You turn your head to catch his lips, pulling his attentions back a moment. His kisses are faster, more desperate, his teeth scratch over your mouth with abandon. You spread your legs, and he slots between your thighs, taking whatever space offered to him while continuing to kiss. 

“Flanker – “ You try, only for him to nip at your lower lip and return to taking your breath. Tangling your left hand into his hair, you pull lightly back, and he reluctantly backs off. He looks to you questioningly as you cup his chin. 

“My heart, I want to see your face. Can you not take me like this?” 

Flanker’s cheeks pink briefly. 

“As you wish.” 

You bridge to allow a pillow to be shoved under your lower back, then Flanker returns to you. You’re still wound tight from your orgasm, but he coaxes himself back in lazily. A minute passes, and you relax once more, boneless, into the mattress. 

Flanker takes you lazily, with deep, steady thrusts. You watch his face; he’s tense with concentration, crease between his eyebrows as he measures his pace. Your heart warms – _he’s so cute_. Then he locks eyes with you, half a second later he flushes a deep red, spreading all the way to his ears. 

“Why do you stare?” He mumbles. 

His hair is still in its rough bun. That tie too, you pull it free and smile as his dark brown locks tumble down to rest below his shoulder-blades. 

“Because you are so beautiful – “ You breathe, and like that you’re caught again in his deep brown eyes, in the shadows dancing across his face. Flanker looks away a moment, but you touch his cheek lightly and he looks back. You lift your chin, and he takes your hint and leans down to kiss you once more. 

It’s too soon for you to climax again, especially with how thoroughly you were tended to, though the soft throbs of pleasure makes you want to try. You cross your legs behind his back, pulling him in further with each rut. Flanker’s breath hitches, but he picks up his pace, becoming more of a staccato stutter than an even rhythm. His back tenses under your fingers, and as you dig in your nails he hides his face against your neck and stifles a low moan. 

Warmth floods you again, though this time it is a unique feeling, your lover peaking inside you. You hug him tight to your front, rub his back to help weather him through the aftershocks. His thrusts have weakened, he tries once, twice more before stilling entirely, silent besides his breathing. 

Your eyes close. Breathing with him, you feel a sense of peace, fighting equally with giddy joy. 

Then he pulls out, dips free from your arms, leaving you empty. You blink, stomach knotting, watch him go to the armoire and dig through the drawers. He eventually grabs a large top blanket and then a drying linen that he wets in the bedside water basin before returning to the bed. 

“Here.” He passes the drying linen to you. 

You rub over your stomach and pat around your privates briefly while Flanker strips the soiled quilt off the bed and replaces it with the similar one from the armoire. He takes the washcloth back from you after and wipes down his own privates, then discards it off onto the floor. 

It’s nearly pitch-dark. The candles have gotten low in their holders. Flanker here really does seem like a shadow now, standing with his back to the candelabra, shifting from foot to foot a metre away from the bed. 

You pull down the sheets and slip inside, moderately certain that you are clean enough to avoid stirring up rumours with the chambermaids the following morning. You flop onto the bed with a quiet groan. The sheets are softer, the mattress is plusher than anything you’ve ever laid upon. 

“So much comfier than a bush…” you sigh. “My love… I’m so glad you’re here.” 

A few seconds pass. No weight of a second body joining you. 

“Flanker?” You ask into the dark. _Had he left_? A moment of fear mixed with cold disappointment almost stills your heart, but then he shifts again where he stands and you make out his shape. Somehow it seems his back is up, his body on edge, uncertain what to do. 

You pat the sheets invitingly. “Come lay with me.” Then wait. 

It takes a moment but Flanker slides in beside you. Your chest fills, yet somehow you’re still lonesome, hungry for the warmth of his skin. Despite finally joining your bed, he’s not lying close enough to touch. Not good enough; it needs to be rectified. He’s lying on his back; you stealthily creep closer, moving to drape atop his front and resting your head atop the chest. 

His form is still somewhat stiff under your body. _Nervous perhaps? Apprehensive_? Fumbling in the blankets, you find his right hand. You bring it to your lips, kissing the knuckles lightly a few times before rubbing it against your cheek. Flanker’s hands are slightly bigger than yours, broader just as his shoulders are broader, but similarly callused from swordplay. 

Your ache for him, the absence of reciprocating arms hurts like a hunger pang. Shuffling position slightly, you drop his hand and instead trace your fingers over a thick pink scar on his chest. Your fingers dance farther, dipping down to trace a longer, redder one that slid down across his left ribs. 

“I made this one.” You say. 

It felt like forever ago, that meeting in the forest right after Birritanti. You had been a different person then. 

“It was a clean cut.” He replies. 

“You were a worthy adversary. Going easy on you had not been an option.” 

“Neither of us would be here now if you had.” 

You both breathe. 

He’s strong. It’s not without the thrill of danger that you meet him here like this. You trust him with your life, would lay your very heart in his hands if you could. Some days it had felt like it was only you and him, the only real people on that impossible, suicidal quest. 

That’s all behind you, now. 

Snaking your arms around his back, you hug Flanker against you, entangling your legs together and deflating with a long sigh. Then too he shifts; his thighs parting to better accommodate your leg and his arms going from being stiff logs at his side to resting firmly round your back, periodically rubbing in small circles. 

“I love you.” You say quietly. This is a far cry from the last time these words left your lips. Facing down the Archmage with a blade at your throat, saying it had felt so _certain_. It had not been a desperate plea to his willpower, but rather a hope that he would remember your words and it would give him peace when you were gone. A bit morbid to be thinking about at a time like this, _and yet_ … 

You feel his body relax at your words, tension in his muscles sapping out to leave him loose and limber all the while his embrace becomes snugger. 

“My heart is yours.” He returns. 

Darker thoughts flee from your mind. The bed is warm, the blankets and your lover’s embrace heavy. There’d be time to relax and celebrate further once you abscond from this place. Perhaps tomorrow you can both slip away, break fast among the common people and find peace somewhere private. 

“Sleep now love. I am with you.” Flanker says. You nod, and your heavy eyelids easily droop closed. 

You feel protected here, and you sleep without dreams. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I love these two so much, I'll try to post again soon. Hope you all enjoyed~


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